


A Change of Pace

by Zeal_Ambition_Steel



Category: Fight Club (1999), Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk
Genre: Altered Mental States, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Coercion, Cynical, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Escape, Fear, Fights, Freedom, Frustration, Implied Relationships, Light Sadism, M/M, Mental Institutions, Non-Linear Narrative, POV First Person, POV Male Character, Prison, Psychotropic Drugs, Self-Acceptance, Self-Destruction, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:31:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeal_Ambition_Steel/pseuds/Zeal_Ambition_Steel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the hours between prison and the mental facility, aspects of Tyler were still painfully vivid. Maybe I didn't want to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Change of Pace

Sometimes I just got flashes of Tyler Durden, a hand, a tawdry shirt, a sharply crooked smile. It always happened at around six o'clock pm. The spacemonkeys in chairs jotted down the details. 

"And how did this make you feel?" they would ask. I don't know. You tell me. 

The cleaning crew kept saying, 

"We'll be waiting for you, Tyler. Just give us the word when it's ready." You know, I probably could've escaped by now if I'd dropped a word. But the walls that surround me are comforting. They tell me that I'm not going to go off the deep end again on another Durden-esque fascist escapade. That's exactly what it was—fascism. 

Every day I wake up at eight o'clock a.m. I follow the line into the cafeteria, I get my food, I sit with the same guys, and I eat the same food. Day in and day out it's all the same, just some boring, pasty shade of monotony. The guys here keep to themselves, and I can't really blame them. But they all make a point of singling me out.

"So…when's Project Mayhem gonna start?" they ask. I don't know. You tell me. 

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The first time Tyler talks to me in months is when they fail to inject the serum into my arm. 

"What've they got you on now?" he asks me. I look up at the face of God. 

"Didn't I shoot you?" I say. 

"Yeah," he chuckles, rubbing his cheek. "You did." 

"I'm not gonna apologize," I tell him firmly. 

"What, I deserved it?" he says with that cheeky grin. I think he gets the message when I fail to respond. "C'mon, this…all of it…it doesn't matter." 

"Yeah, it matters," I retort. "I had to shoot myself in the face to get rid of you."

"Well, you're healed now, right?" he points out.

"That's not the issue," I say. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The next thing I know they're injecting me with pure caffeine. Stimulants are one of five different methods to dealing with dissociative personality disorder. The five methods include antidepressants, depressants, antipsychotic medication, anxiety medication, and stimulants. Stimulants include but are not limited to caffeine, midafinil, methylphenidate, and dextroamphetamine. They give me stimulants when the days start to blur together and Tyler starts to flicker into view. They give me depressants when they think I'm starting to get too antsy. They give me antidepressants when I'm not antsy enough. I'm on a strict diet of pills and injections, not part of this nutritious breakfast. 

Fight Club was a remedy. This place is where souls go to die. 

"How do you feel?" they ask me. 

"Swell," I reply from the couch. 

They lock me up at the end of the day like a zoo animal. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

"Sometimes it doesn't matter who gets hurt," Tyler says to me from across my padded prison cell.

"Sometimes it does," I say. 

"Look, buddy, I get that you want to be like the guys in the ads who're perfectly sane. But who isn't insane, really? Genius and madness go hand-in-hand. I inspired a nation and you? You were my prophet." 

"So now you're some deified figure?" I groan. 

"You were the first to do it," Tyler tells me, his gaze as heavy as the lead-filled aprons they smother you with when they take X-Rays. 

"So now I'm God?" I clarify.

"I'm God, you're God, sure, whatever," says Tyler. "If you ever want to get out of here, just call me. I've got the keys." He dangles them before me for extra measure. He pinches his cigarette, ashes spotting the pure white padding made in a factory far away. He slips through the bars and leaves. What Tyler has, I have. 

I check my pockets. Nothing there. What Tyler knows, I know. So he hid the keys on me now as vengeance. I can deal with that.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

I stay in my prison because Marla thinks I can get better. She kisses me goodbye and I watch her go. I wonder, as I always do, if she'll come back, cloud of smoke and all. She's one of those factories that spouts smoke that joins the clouds in Heaven. One day, one day. I wonder how her mom's doing. 

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

"You're only in here because you think you need to get better, but truth is, it's alright not to be perfect," Tyler informs me. "Not like you're killing people."

"Robert," I snap at him. 

"You didn't do that," Tyler growls, "so don't you dare blame yourself." 

"What, are you my therapist now, too?" I ask.

"I know you better than anyone," Tyler hisses in my ear, "and don't you forget it. You hate it here, and you want out. You want to let it all go, want to watch it fall. That's not insane, it's a dream, an aspiration, the need we all have. Conflict is inevitable because there's a part of us that wants it, needs it. Without conflict, there is no cause, there is no present, there is no future. We cannot live without something to do. Project Mayhem must go on." 

"No."

"Then what would you do outside here?" 

"I. Don't. Know."

"Figure it out, because I'm about to crash the car. You have five seconds before I snap your neck."

"I'd…"

"Five."

"I don't want to work," I blurt out. 

"Better," says Tyler. "Stop caging yourself up like this, or else it'll only get worse. Let me in. Stop resisting them. Just let them win. Lose the fight. It was your first homework assignment, dammit. That's your way out."

"Where're the keys, Tyler?"

"I thought you didn't want them."

"Well, I do."

"Do you know what you want yet?"

"No."

"Do you know where you want to go?" asks Tyler.

"No."

"Are you afraid?" asks Tyler. I don't answer. "Then you need to stay here." 

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

They give me more stimulants because I appear half-asleep. The stimulants just make it worse. Tyler's everywhere now. 

"Don't talk to me out loud," he says. "C'mon, follow me." I trail after him like a pathetic golden retriever. "Hey," he greets the other inmates. "You're fuckin' hideous." They beat the shit out of me, one-two, one-two. I fight back, tackling, kicking, punching. We all leave with black eyes, broken noses, and bloody, swollen lips. Tyler smiles at the sight of me. "Now there's a sight for sore eyes," he cackles. "Just like the good ol' days." He grabs me by the neck and presses a kiss to my cheek. I grin, revealing my blood streaked teeth to him. "There's my psycho boy," he murmurs, arm wrapped around my shoulders. I'm in agony, but I'm alive. I'm calm. I'm collected. I'm just like the rest of you.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

I get into more fights. The skinny guys, like in Fight Club, are always more durable. I get better at viciously beating them into the ground. I get solitary, but at least there's Tyler. 

"Just lemme talk to you, alright? Don't talk back," Tyler says soothingly, pressing a cold compress to my face. It's probably just me, but it feels nice to know that someone out there cares. "You're not afraid anymore, right?" I shake my head. "We don't need Marla," he tells me. "We need out. Tonight." 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He gives me the keys that night, but not before kissing me. It's a good kiss, and he licks all the blood from my teeth. I pretend it's real. He leads me through the maze of hallways, and when the night air hits my face and the cops are in the car awaiting my arrival, I'm free and alive and it's perfect, like that one moment when Tyler sat in the hand on the beach. 

"We've been waiting for you, Mr. Durden," the cop tells me after I'm buckled up in the back seat. 

"It's good to see you back," the other cop says.

"I know," I say. Tyler is grinning, leaning back, sunglasses perched atop his spiked blonde hair. His hand pats my thigh. 

"Welcome back," he murmurs.


End file.
